Talking Heads – ‘Fear of Music’
It’s the spring of 1979, and Talking Heads are gathered in a Long Island loft swapping polyrhythms and Dadaisms. They’re still shimmering with the success of their last studio offering, More Songs About Buildings And Food, which provided a first glimpse at sonic interests beyond the realm of post-punk. Now, with the assistance of electronic pioneer Brian Eno, they’re setting out to fully realise those influences to begin the descent into disco.
The result of their loft-dwelling efforts was 1979’s Fear of Music, a record just as metallic and textural as its album cover suggests. And though disco was a driving influence on the record, the Heads had removed any sheen or glitter from the genre they cited, turning it into something much dryer, much darker, and much more dystopian.
This simultaneous interest in groove and grit became clear from the opening track, ‘I Zimbra’, which paired a sparse beat with nonsensical Dadaist lyricism. “Gadji beri bimba clandridi,” Byrne and his band of Dadaist backup singers declare. There’s no way to decipher what they’re saying, but it doesn’t matter. Somehow, the subtle yet danceable instrumentation will have you up on your feet, trying desperately to sing along.
The track sets every element of the album’s focus into motion and cemented the band’s interest in dissecting disco. It’s strange and textural, dry and muddy, perfectly playing into the themes of the record. Some have suggested that each song title can replace the word “music” in the title to describe something Byrne fears. Most of them are just one word – ‘Drugs’ or ‘Heaven’, for example.
Some song titles fit into the theory slightly more seamlessly than others. “Fear of Memories Can’t Wait” is a little bit of a mouthful and seems to throw off the theory. Still, it provides a solid foundation for looking at Fear of Music as a project. There’s a constant sense of nervousness, of fearful anticipation, beneath each trepidatious beat and groove.
In between those dry, disco influences, Talking Heads throw in wobbling synths and those all-too-familiar angular guitars, interspersing their newfound groove with their post-punk roots. There’s ‘Mind’, which offsets eerie tones and confused lyrics with dependable rock and roll riffs. And ‘Life During Wartime’, which, undoubtedly, provides the most danceable moment on the record, even before you’ve witnessed Byrne’s iconic performance in Stop Making Sense.
Every player is at the top of their game experimentally, pushing Talking Heads’ sound to be something grimier and something greater. And at the centre, pulling it all together, are Byrne’s vocals, just as textural and dry as every instrument that surrounds them. He leans into the anxious groove on ‘Cities’, into the almost ghostly feeling of ‘Air’, and into the tentative tranquillity of ‘Heaven’.
The playfully paradisical song remains a highlight of the record, though it’s much less strange and experimental than many of Fear of Music’s other offerings. As Byrne muses on the afterlife, comparing it to a bar, to a party, and to a place where nothing happens, he’s accompanied by fairly straightforward keys and percussion.
It’s far from the polyrhythms that appear earlier on in the record, but it’s perfectly suited to the song. The lyrics are some of Byrne’s best, not just on Fear of Music but in the entirety of Talking Heads’ discography. Poking fun at the idea of heaven, at the idea of eternal paradise, he proves that his lyrics can be just as nihilistic as they are nonsensical.
As the record comes to an end with the sparse clinks and twangs of ‘Drugs’, as strange voices echo around the textural soundscape, Fear of Music secures its place as the most complete album in Talking Heads’ discography and perhaps their best. It’s a record that creates a truly foreboding atmosphere over the course of a 40-minute runtime, bringing you entirely into the dystopian world that Byrne has so clearly envisioned. But even in that world, in the grainy, metallic future he imagines, Talking Heads make sure that there’s always something to groove to.
